We Belong Together
by Orangejolius
Summary: Stan and Kyle meet up after years apart; hoping to reconcile but secretly wanting much more than that.


"You look wonderful."

Kyle looked up from his glass of white wine, green eyes muted from the dim lighting of the restaurant, but Stan couldn't help but think their color stemmed from his mood, too; pensive, almost sullen.

"I look the same, only older," Kyle replied, taking a languid sip. "But if that means I look wonderful, thanks." He paused, studying Stan's face for a moment. He nodded, sudden calm satisfaction muddling the green further.

"You look healthy."

Stan looked down at himself, at his newly pressed suit and sweaty palms. He didn't feel healthy so he wasn't sure how Kyle had come to this conclusion. Reaching for his own wine glass, he took a careful drink, fighting back a grimace. He was a beer drinker through and through but he'd wanted to impress Kyle because it had been so long.

"Thanks," he said, pressing moist fingers against his lips. He was terrified of saying the wrong thing, but he was also unnerved that Kyle seemed so relaxed but so on edge at the same time. How was that even possible?

"Are you nervous?" Kyle asked, smiling now. He set his glass down and leaned against the table, one hand resting under his chin. "You shouldn't be, you know. It's just me."

Some of the ice cracked with Kyle's sudden question, and Stan found himself finally taking a full breath. He grinned.

"I know, but you're different."

"Everything's different, I suppose. Time. Circumstances. But me, well, fundamentally I'm the same, Stan. I promise," Kyle said, eyes drifting now and becoming dismissive. He didn't seem altogether interested in discussing himself.

"Dude, you're a doctor! How can you be the same? You've accomplished everything you've ever wanted!"

"If life's accomplishments can be summed up by what we do to earn money, fine, I'm a success," Kyle replied, eyes darkening to a green ocean murk now; completely fathomless. "And yes, I care about my work, Stan; I have to. You don't expend so much time, sweat, and energy without caring, but it's not what I _focus_ on. Does that make any sense?"

Stan wanted to tell him that no, it didn't make any sense to him, but then again Kyle had never made much sense to him; not in the way that counted. He always felt like Kyle was existing on an elevated plane beyond his reach, but that didn't stop him from wanting to try and understand.

"Let's not have this discussion right now," Kyle finally said, after the silence had stretched between them and began to carry weight. He smiled and held his wine glass aloft, white glimmers of wine catching the candlelight and glowing like a gem. "Let's drink wine, get drunk, and just be for awhile. Let's not force this, okay?"

Stan held his drink up too, but he still worried, eyes trailing over Kyle's hands; the hands of a heart surgeon.

"Are you sure that's okay? I mean, what about -"

"I took a short leave, Stan," Kyle interrupted, reaching over and plucking up the wine bottle. He poured more in both of their glasses. "I wanted to be able to actually focus on you. Isn't that nice?"

"You didn't have to do that."

"No one has to do anything," Kyle replied, rolling his eyes; almost looking like a teenager again. "Usually doing nothing is my preference, but for you, I'm willing to make the effort."

"You're too kind," Stan snorted, taking a long sip; alcohol seeping into his blood like tea leaves through hot water. He already had a buzz from being near Kyle again, might as well add to it with upscale spirits.

"No, I'm not," Kyle said, winking. "Especially when I'm white wine drunk, but I'll try to behave myself."

* * *

"Lithium nightmares are the best."

Stan rubbed his eyes and looked up, the wine glass languishing in his hand and still half-full. Three bottles, all empty, sat on the edge of the table; their green glow matching the one captured in Kyle's irises; red streaks breaking through his scleras.

"What?" He asked, voice slurred but still containing a modicum of sleepy dignity. "What are you talking about?"

Kyle was fading a little, one delicate hand straying through his curls and upsetting them. Stan had the sudden desire to just bury his face in them and fall asleep.

"I have absolutely no idea...I'm just guessing here. However, all I know is I never remembered my dreams before the lithium, so...I still have absolutely no clue. Whatever," Kyle said, finishing off his wine and picking at his plate of food, pork medallions in a mustard sauce; fussy, pretentious food. All Stan wanted was a burger and fries.

"Why are you taking lithium, Kyle?"

"I knew I should've taken you to Tír na nÓg," Kyle said instead, plunking his fork down. "We could've had corned beef and cabbage and crab dip instead of this crap!" He pointed to his plate and Stan couldn't help but smirk at the tiny portion. It hardly made a worthwhile mouthful.

"In fact, I have leftover Chinese in my fridge that would taste better than this crap. What do you say?" Suddenly, he was pulling out his wallet and cracking it open; slim fingers dragging out a platinum American Express card.

"No," Stan managed to choke out, swallowing the wine that had been resting on his tongue. Clumsily, he fumbled for his own wallet but he wasn't quick enough; Kyle had already waved the waiter over and pushed his card into his outstretched palm.

"Don't worry about it," he said, dabbing at his lips with a cloth napkin. "You can pay for our cab home. Neither of us is in the condition to drive, and my apartment isn't far." He thought a moment. "Honestly, we should've just met there in the first place. Why did I drag you to this frou frou place? Why didn't you stop me?"

"I can't stop you from doing anything," Stan muttered, pushing his wallet back into his pocket. "Why can't we just walk to your place if it isn't far?"

Kyle snapped his head back and laughed, his white throat flashing against the candlelight.

"You don't want to walk around Baltimore at this hour, Stan. Trust me."

Stan studied him for a moment, concern filling his mind up along with the alcohol's warm buzz.

"Why are you living in a city that you're too afraid to walk around at night?"

Kyle snorted and stood, sliding his black jacket on that hugged his body; clearly tailored and expensive.

"I can't really think of a city that is safe to walk around at night, Stan. Can you? South Park's a tiny mountain town and even we locked our doors back in the day. The quaint little slice of safe Americana you're thinking about doesn't exist anymore." He pulled on his gloves and accepted the receipt when the waiter came back, signing off on it quickly.

"Besides," he added, gesturing for Stan to rise. "It's fucking cold tonight, there's no way I'm walking around in 12 degree weather."

* * *

"There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them. Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.'"*

Kyle spoke these words into the quiet apartment as he emerged from the bathroom, clad in a white robe and hair wrapped in a towel. He'd insisted on bathing as soon as they'd returned to his apartment, imploring Stan to make himself comfortable; going so far as to offer him expensive, aged brandy. Stan, finally tired of the pretenses, had declined and begged for a beer instead; desperately wanting to feel like he had some footing back. Kyle had just laughed and tossed him a Bud Light.

"There's my Stan," he'd said before retreating into his bedroom.

Stan had sat on the couch and looked around, trying to take in his surroundings, Kyle's enclosure, but it had been impossible to wrap his head around everything, so he'd taken note of small details: lamps with Tiffany glass, medical journals on the shelves, the painting of a naked woman riding a horse on the far wall; head down and sitting on crimson fabric. Coming closer, he saw that it was Lady Godiva and admired its charms but wondering why Kyle had it front and center in his living room.

If anything, what he focused on the most was the smell because it produced so many memories. Errant ribbons of musk wove their way through the room, a spice, and he knew it immediately as the scent of Kyle's red curls. He sighed into it and drank deeply of his beer until Kyle returned, and then he smirked at his words.

"Sylvia Plath," he said, sitting down and watching Kyle like he'd watch a sunrise; on edge and heart leaping to be so close to real beauty.

Kyle seemed amused as he came and sat as well, reaching out and plucking Stan's bottle from his hand. He drank deeply, pink tongue lingering for a moment on the bottle's opening before handing it back. This action was enough to make Stan blush hotly.

"You knew," he remarked, sitting back and tucking his legs underneath of him. "But why wouldn't you know? You know everything about me, don't you?"

"Hardly," Stan replied, drinking more beer but not tasting its flavor so much as he tasted Kyle's lips. "I just know about your torrid love affair with Mrs. Plath."

"It's been a relationship over 20 years in the making," Kyle smirked. "But she was right, don't you think? Baths are a cure-all."

"This is a cure-all," Stan quipped, shaking the beer bottle slightly.

"That's a cover-up." Kyle rubbed his hair with the towel, fat droplets of water clinging to the strands that lay against his neck. Stan lingered on them, wanting to taste them with his tongue, touch them with his still-cold fingers; Baltimore winters proving to be just as savage as the long-ago ones in Colorado.

"Sylvia could even describe the ceiling over every bathtub she was ever in," he continued, idly. "I don't think I can do that, not to that extent, but I can remember the ceiling of your bathroom very well."

"Can you?" Stan asked, setting the now empty bottle aside and feeling inexplicably anxious. Kyle's tone had shifted, become less playful.

"I can remember it right now, if I close my eyes," Kyle murmured, pulling the towel away and revealing his riot of curls; stained wine red by residual moisture. "I can remember what it looked like the last time I saw it, actually; on an August morning, almost 15 years ago now."

Now Stan understood the mood shift, and his anxiety built on itself like gathering clouds promising rain. He didn't say anything because he knew Kyle needed to talk about this; they both did.

"I was in the water until it turned ice cold," Kyle said, tossing the towel aside. "I think I was so happy I didn't even notice, you know? I stared at the cracks in your ceiling and watched the sunlight move across it, and I felt so, God," he paused, groping for words. "Good, I guess? I know it's a pathetic, little word, but it fits. I just felt good. Right."

"So did I," Stan said, bringing a hand to his eyes.

"Hmm, I imagine you did," Kyle agreed, voice faraway; probably still in that bathroom of the past. "Why wouldn't you? You got to plant your flag on Mount Olympus."

"It wasn't like that!" Stan yelled, pulling his hand away and glancing at Kyle sharply. He knew he had no right to be angry, but he was. Kyle couldn't possibly think it had meant nothing to him, but how could he convince him otherwise? So much time had passed since then, since he could've made things right, but he never had. It was in that moment that the passage of years felt like a roadway to eternity, and Stan was being dragged down it without his consent.

"What happened to us, Stan?" Kyle asked, voice small and sounding so young. He had his hands clasped in his lap and he stared down at them. "Why did you let me leave without saying anything? I didn't need you to tell me you loved me, I just needed to know that what happened actually mattered."

"It's always mattered," Stan said, tiredly. How could he convey to Kyle that he'd been the dream he'd been clinging to since the mist had evaporated from that one perfect moment, years ago? How could he explain how scared he'd been back then, how scared he still was? Time had the strange power, the ability, to reinforce fears and widen rifts, and every time Stan had picked up the phone to call Kyle and explain how he felt, something had always stopped him. Fear? Hope?

"The scary thing about us is that nothing profound had to happen for us to drift apart," Kyle said. "We just did. It almost happened naturally, like it was meant to. That's something I've always had a hard time living with." He shook his head then, sending a scattering of droplets across the couch; the scents of his spice wafting to Stan and making him weak.

"But you're here now, aren't you?" Kyle asked, standing. "And I suppose that's all that matters. For now." He smiled and it was the Kyle of the present instead of the sad remnant of the past that couldn't be rectified or changed. "I promised you Chinese food, didn't I? Why don't I fix you a plate while you freshen up? How's that sound."

"That would be perfect," Stan said, standing as well; brushing at his clothes nervously. Kyle's robe was slightly parted so he could see his narrow chest, catching glimpses of his pale skin, and it was so reminiscent of that one lost summer when they'd finally given themselves to one another that Stan couldn't help but stare. Kyle seemed to notice and he smiled indulgently.

"Are you staying the night?"

 _I'm staying forever,_ Stan thought, but of course he didn't say that. He just nodded.

"Right through there," Kyle replied, pointing toward his bedroom; eyes registering understanding like he had the power to hear Stan's thoughts. "Use whatever you want."

Moments later, Stan had closed himself in Kyle's bathroom and he was splashing icy cold water on his face. His hands rasped against his stubble and he sighed to see just how tired he looked, even though Kyle had said he looked healthy. He hadn't been healthy in years.

Glancing down, he saw a row of prescription bottles on the counter, and hating himself for being so nosy he read the labels; eyes lingering on foreign, clinical names that only made him worry.

"Lithium, buspirone, ambien, klonopin," he said, softly; fingers drifting over each of the bottles. The medications raised a multitude of questions but he wasn't about to ask Kyle about them out of turn. Clearly he wasn't ashamed of them, and he shouldn't be, having them on full display on the counter; silent, regulating sentinels. Sighing, Stan finished pulling himself together and left the bathroom, snapping off the light.

Coming back into the living room, he slid off his coat and threw it over a chair, the greasy, salty scents of Chinese carryout permeating the air and obliterating Kyle's lingering spice. A fully loaded plate with lo mein and egg rolls waited on the coffee table, steaming fragrantly. He didn't focus on that though, choosing instead to look at the couch where Kyle was stretched out on his side, hands under his face and eyes closed. The easy, deep sounds of his sleepy breaths wafted to Stan's ears and made him feel painful tenderness. Without thinking, he came over and gently lifted Kyle's head from the couch so he could sit, settling it back in his lap.

Kyle stirred slightly but didn't awaken, nuzzling closer to Stan automatically while his fingers curled in the fabric of his slacks. Stan couldn't help but hold his breath until he made sure that he hadn't made a mistake, but when Kyle settled he dared to drift a hand over his pretty scarlet locks, still moist but already beginning to curl back up. As silence sifted through the room like its own strange music, Stan passed his fingers through Kyle's hair as he slept, adoring every strand he touched; wanting to live with their feeling in his fingers for the rest of his life.

They were like that for minutes, maybe hours, before Stan couldn't stop himself, and he was leaning forward to kiss Kyle's cheek, but green eyes slid open before he could press his lips to his flushed skin.

"I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it*," Kyle murmured, lifting his hand and pressing it to Stan's mouth.

"More Sylvia," Stan said, laughing a little and kissing the finger resting on his skin.

"Naturally," Kyle replied, stroking Stan's cheek a little. "You know, if you wanted to kiss me I'd prefer to be awake for the experience. After all, the first kiss after so many years is bound to be the best. It's like the first bite of an apple, it's always the sweetest. Right?"

"Is that a fact?" Stan asked, leaning into Kyle's touch and suddenly feeling like he'd managed to come home after centuries away.

"We're about to find out, aren't we?" Kyle asked, turning and pulling him close; his mysterious spice surrounding Stan and drawing him in completely.

* * *

Notes:

* Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar  
* Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath


End file.
